The Magic Cake Shop

by Meika Hashimoto

  Emma gave Charles a tiny grin, then rolled down the window and peered outside. She saw a flower shop bustling with people buying daisies and tulips, a stand with carefully arranged fruit and vegetables, and a bakery with neatly braided loaves of bread laid out on large cookie trays. People walked unhurriedly from place to place and laughed and chatted with one another. Outside a storefront with chocolate and vanilla swirls on the window, small children with sticky faces happily licked ice cream cones of every flavor.

  Charles slowed down and parked on the side of the street in front of a large store whose sign read: PETE’S FINE SAUSAGES AND HAMS.

  “You dolt.” Mrs. Burblee glared at Charles. “I said sweet shop, not meat shop.”

  “I know, ma’am.” Charles looked over his shoulder. “The sweet shop is three blocks down.”

  “Then why are we stopping here?”

  “Because this is where the line starts.”

  The Burblees looked down the street. Dozens and dozens of people stretched from block to block.

  “Exactly what shop do you have in mind?” Mr. Burblee rumbled.

  “Mr. Crackle’s Cake Shop, of course. It has the best pastries in the world!” Charles beamed.

  Mr. Burblee frowned. “Looks popular, but I don’t want to wait in line.”

  “I’m sure we won’t have to—after all, we are rich,” Mrs. Burblee said airily. “Driver, keep on going until we reach the shop.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue.”

  Charles paused, then quietly started the limo. He drove past the long line, parked in front of the cake shop, and then got out and opened the door for the Burblees.

  As Emma emerged from the limo’s backseat, the gentle aroma of rich pastries filled her nostrils. She had never smelled anything so delicious in her life. She took a deep breath, stepped onto the sidewalk, and took her first look at the place with such exquisite smells.

  The cake shop had a pink-and-green awning that shaded four large windows framed by green shutters. A wooden sign hung in one window, with MR. CRACKLE’S CAKE SHOP delicately etched in old-fashioned handwriting. A door with a big brass knob, well polished by countless eager hands, stood wide open.

  Mrs. Burblee had gotten out of the limo. She rummaged through her purse and drew out her vial of vinegar. With a sharp sniff, she inhaled, then pressed the vial to Emma’s nose.

  For the first time in her life, Emma batted the vial away.

  Mrs. Burblee’s eyes narrowed. “Emma, take the vinegar. You don’t want to be smelling all these disgust—”

  “Yes, I do.” Emma stared at her mom.

  Mrs. Burblee flinched. Her voice turned hard and low. “Very well, young woman. You’re lucky that I don’t want to make a scene.” She turned and began to shove past the neatly lined-up crowd at the entrance of the shop. Mr. Burblee grasped Emma’s hand and followed closely.

  Emma glanced at the waiting customers. “It’s not very nice to cut.”

  “Nice, schmice. We are too important to wait behind ordinary people,” Mrs. Burblee sniffed.

  “Quite right, my dear,” said Mr. Burblee.

  They went inside.

  Emma’s heart fluttered. Everywhere she looked, glass display cases brimmed with the most marvelous desserts. Deep-dish apple pies with perfectly browned crusts sat snugly next to bright yellow lemon meringues and gooey chocolate cakes. White-chocolate cheesecake with raspberry swirls and strawberry jelly rolls dusted with sweetened cocoa nestled up to pear tarts glazed with maple syrup. One display case held nothing but small globes of glistening chocolate truffles.

  Emma felt like she had been dropped in the middle of a miracle. She thought about the pictures in the cookbooks she had seen. They were nothing compared to the masterpieces in front of her. She turned to take one more look around. Suddenly her mother’s face cut off her view.

  “Emma, stop staring. You look like a fish. Now, here’s how to get what you want without waiting.”

  Mrs. Burblee pushed forward to the head of the line. She flashed a blinding smile at the man she had stepped in front of. “Mind if I cut?” she crooned.

  The man blinked. “Actually, I do,” he said, and pressed a little bell with a note card taped next to it that read CUTTER ALERT.

  Instantly a boy with bright red hair and freckles appeared next to Mrs. Burblee. He looked up and said politely, “Excuse me, ma’am, but Mr. Crackle doesn’t allow cutters. Please move to the back of the line.”

  Mrs. Burblee folded her arms. She arched one perfect eyebrow. “Little boy, do you know who I am?”

  “Nope, but even the king of France isn’t allowed to cut. Believe me, he tried, but Mr. Crackle gave him a talking-to and he waited in line, just like everybody else.” The boy looked gravely at Mrs. Burblee, who drew herself up.

  “Who’s this Mr. Crackle to tell important people that they have to wait?” she huffed.

  “He’s the best baker in the world. He can make up any rules he wants in this shop. And if you don’t go to the back, you won’t get anything today.” The boy stared unflinchingly at Mrs. Burblee.

  Mrs. Burblee lifted her eyes and emitted an exasperated groan. “Emma,” she snarled, digging into her purse and pulling out a wad of bills, “get in line and buy a cake for Uncle Simon. Your father and I will be in the limo.” With a glare at the redheaded boy, she took Mr. Burblee’s arm and click-clacked disapprovingly out of the shop.

  Emma turned to the boy. “Sorry about that. My parents usually get what they want.”

  “No worries. I’ve handled lots of snoots like them.” The boy stuck out his hand. “My name’s Albie.”

  “I’m Emma.” Emma shook his hand and smiled.

  Albie beamed back. “Hey, you’ve got a great shake! Come on, let’s get to the end of the line so you don’t have to wait too long.”

  As they walked out of the shop, Emma asked, “So do a lot of people try to cut?”

  “Yup. About twenty or so tourists try to pull the ‘I’m special’ trick every day. Mr. Crackle hired me to be his special cutter control person. If someone rings the bell, I walk the cutter to the back of the line to make sure they don’t cut again.”

  “What if there are several cutters at the same time?”

  Albie grinned. “The trapdoor takes care of them.”

  “The trapdoor?” Emma’s eyes widened.

  “Mmm-hmm. It’s in front of the counter. If someone cuts while I’m busy, it opens up and fffwhup! Down goes the cutter.”

  “Where does the trapdoor go?”

  “A very nice locked room. Once I’m done with the first cutter, I bring the second cutter up and put him in line and wait with him and that’s that. It’s a great system, really.”

  Emma and Albie reached the end of the line and got behind a plump, silver-haired woman. She had a kind face and a bright orange parasol that she held in one hand to ward off the sun. She looked at Albie and chuckled. “Another cutter, Albie?”

  “Nah, Mrs. Dimple. Emma’s all right.” Albie pointed a finger toward the long, sullen limo across the street. “Her mom and dad were the cutters.”

  Mrs. Dimple clucked. “Made you get in line instead of them? Typical for spoiled parents. But don’t you worry. The wait is worth it. Anything Mr. Crackle bakes is pure heaven.”

  Albie’s eyes glittered with excitement. “They say Mr. Crackle puts all these liquids and powders and stuff in his cooking, but no one’s ever seen what they are. He’s got a glass window between his kitchen and the shop so you can see him bake, but no one’s allowed to go past that glass. I’ll bet he gets his spices straight from China.”

  Mrs. Dimple crouched next to Emma. “It’s more than just ingredients,” she said softly. “There are some people who are experts at what they do. Then there are the geniuses.”

  Mrs. Dimple’s voice fell to a low, mysterious note. “And then … there are magicians—people so wondrously talented at what they do, they become more craft than person.

  �
�Mr. Crackle is a magician. He can judge with a flick of his wrist a teaspoon or a quart without using any measuring device. When he mixes ingredients, his hands flow from the flour to the spices to the buttermilk like he’s conducting a fantastic symphony. He’s got magic in his fingers, magic in his blood. Anything you buy will make your taste buds sing.”

  Emma felt excitement blossom inside her. As they waited, she listened to Mrs. Dimple regale her with descriptions of her favorite desserts (“Marmalade scones with dobs of fresh cream—marvelous! Raspberry pistachio ice cream—heavenly!”). Before long, they had reached the front of the line.

  Mrs. Dimple addressed the pleasant-faced young woman behind the counter. “Margie, my love! I’ll have a blueberry pie and a box of truffles.”

  Margie nodded briskly. “Coming right up!” She gave Mrs. Dimple a smile. “Good choice with the truffles—I think Mr. Crackle outdid himself with this batch.”

  Mrs. Dimple beamed. “Get the truffles,” she whispered to Emma, and gave her a friendly wink before heading out the door.

  Emma peered down at dozens of different cakes, each more splendid than the next. “How do I choose the best chocolate one?” she mused aloud.

  Margie plucked a cake from a display case and propped it on the counter. It was piled high with fluffy chocolate buttercream. She gave Emma a kind look. “Trust me, this is the best. Mr. Crackle never misses with his eight-layer chocolate cake.”

  Emma gasped. “Eight layers?”

  Margie nodded. “Eight delicious parties in your mouth,” she said.

  Emma inhaled the buttery scent. “I’ll take it! May I also have a small box of assorted truffles?”

  “Of course.” Margie whipped out a paper box from below the counter, neatly placed the cake inside, then bundled up the box with a bit of ribbon. She did the same with the truffles and handed them to Emma. “Enjoy!”

  Emma thanked Margie and paid for the desserts. She tucked the truffle box inside her pocket and walked back to the limo with her arms full, stopping briefly to say goodbye to Albie. Charles opened the door for her. She climbed in, where she found her parents tweezing their knuckle hairs.

  “Finally. Now, off to Uncle Simon’s!” Mr. Burblee ordered.

  The limo slinked out of town, hit a pothole and lurched, then crept up a winding dirt road until it parked next to a ramshackle house with peeling paint and a rotting front porch.

  Emma saw Uncle Simon sitting on the steps of the porch, which sagged under his enormous bulk. He was cleaning a metal-clawed trap with an oily rag.

  “You’re just in time for hunting rabbits!” he shouted to the Burblees as they clambered out of the limo. “Once this trap’s all greased up, we’re going to catch ourselves some dinner!”

  “Hello, Simon. We only eat dinner every other day, but thank you for the invitation.” Mrs. Burblee strode forward to greet her brother-in-law. She gave Uncle Simon air kisses while Emma and Charles collected suitcases from the trunk of the limo and hauled them up to the porch.

  “Simon, nice to see you,” boomed Mr. Burblee, rummaging through his pocket. He pulled out a checkbook and pen and began to scribble. When he was done, he tore off a check and handed it over.

  Uncle Simon’s cold eyes lit up. “Good to see we’re getting straight to business.” He tucked the check in his pants and stood up. The metal trap gleamed. “So … I make sure Emma’s still alive by the end of the summer, and in three months you come and get her and I get another one of these checks?”

  “That’s right!” Mrs. Burblee bobbed her head and turned to Emma. “Now, you make sure you do whatever Uncle Simon says. Once summer ends, we’ll send the driver for you. Have fun!”

  Mr. Burblee patted Emma’s head. “See if you can find squirrel tails—the boutique is running low.” He kept patting. “By the way, we left a present for you in one of your suitcases.”

  With that, Mr. and Mrs. Burblee turned their backs to Emma and Uncle Simon and sashayed back to the limo. Emma thanked Charles and gave him a tight hug before he left to open the door for her parents and drive away.

  Uncle Simon jerked his thumb toward the door. “Your room’s the one next to the kitchen. In a few hours, I’ll be back with rabbit, and maybe a bluebird. The recipe for backyard stew is on the fridge. When I come back, you had better be ready to make dinner … or else.” He gave Emma a glare, then waddled down the porch steps and disappeared into the woods.

  Emma dragged her belongings into the house and found the cramped, untidy room Uncle Simon had given her. She spent the next hour dusting and sweeping, then unpacked her suitcase, in which she found a Chic-Chic hatbox. Pinned to the top was a note that read: Dear Emma, For goodness’ sake, wear this so at least some of your outfit will be fashionable. It’s a Chic-Chic specialty! Inside the box was a hat decorated with cactus prickles and pickle stems. Emma sighed and sat on her creaky bed.

  It was going to be a long summer.

  She pulled out her truffles and popped one into her mouth. The chocolate hesitated on her tongue, then melted into a river of sweetness. Emma closed her eyes and sighed with happiness.

  Feeling much better, she decided to make a quick inspection of the house. She left her room and walked into the kitchen, a mass of stainless-steel counters and cabinets. The stove was two tons of heavy-duty iron with eight burners. Emma turned a knob and watched as monstrous blue flames leaped three inches in the air.

  A steel pantry stood next to a massive walk-in fridge hunched in the corner. Emma took a peek inside and found slabs of meat, pounds of butter, cases of eggs, bags full of onions, buckets of potatoes, and assorted condiments. An enormous freezer held more slabs of meat and a few bags of frozen peas. Plates crusted over with greasy bits of leftover food filled the sink.

  Emma wandered into the living room. A thick, deep couch dusted with potato-chip crumbles sat in front of a large television turned to a cooking channel. An advertisement for meat cleavers was on. To the right of the television stood an ancient grandfather clock and an enormous locked gun cabinet with dozens of rifles and shotguns. Along the walls, just below the ceiling, were the heads of some of the poor creatures Uncle Simon had shot.

  Upstairs was Uncle Simon’s room, bedecked in fur rugs, greasy sandwich wrappers, and more animal heads. Dirty towels and underwear filled the bathroom next door.

  The grandfather clock downstairs chimed the half hour. Emma realized she should have been preparing Uncle Simon’s dinner and went down to the kitchen. She found the recipe for backyard stew, rolled up her sleeves, and began to cube potatoes. As she sliced the onions, she had a suspicion that her cooking lessons were going to come in handy.

  Emma’s suspicion proved right. As the weeks went by, Uncle Simon kept her busy with cooking and cleaning and chores. A usual day of eating would find him gobbling eight eggs and a dozen slices of bacon for breakfast, three bloody steaks and a gallon of Turkish coffee for midmorning snack, two small roasted suckling pigs for lunch, five lobsters and a broiled pheasant for afternoon snack, and seven bowls of backyard stew for dinner.

  Twice a week, a great big delivery truck would arrive at the house, filled with piles of ingredients. It was all Emma could do to keep up with Uncle Simon’s appetite. By the time she finished making breakfast, lunch had to be prepared, followed by chores around the house, then several hours of dinner making.

  Though she was glad to finally try out her cooking skills, Emma was soon exhausted by the work she had to do for Uncle Simon, who came closest to thanking her when he wolfed down a bean-chili dinner and grunted, “Well, I’ll be gassy tonight, but it was worth it.”

  However, there was one area of cooking that Emma did not have to worry over. Two afternoons after she arrived, Uncle Simon gave her a list that read:

  3 chocolate buttercream cakes

  5 blackberry jelly rolls

  8 pecan pies

  12 super-triple-fudge brownies

  46 strawberry-rhubarb crumble squares

  92 oatmeal raisin
cookies

  151 glazed pear tarts

  289 mint truffles

  “Are you having company tonight?” Emma asked.

  Uncle Simon glowered down at her. “Absolutely not, you ignorant twit. This is my dessert list for the week. I normally get them delivered from Mr. Crackle’s, but I never miss an opportunity to save a buck or two. Why pay extra for a pie when you have someone to make it for free?”

  Emma’s eyes glimmered. At last! A chance to bake dessert! She grabbed a dessert cookbook she had snuck into her suitcase and set to work.

  Unfortunately, dessert baking proved harder than she thought. The egg whites didn’t froth. The pastry dough turned stiff and dry. “Glaze” was much easier to say than to make.

  That evening, when Emma brought out dessert, Uncle Simon took one bite and gagged.

  “Pah! This tastes like burned coals!”

  “I knew I should have turned down the oven.” Emma looked grimly at the assorted blackened desserts on the dinner table.

  Uncle Simon scowled. “I suppose I’ll have to go back to Mr. Crackle. But don’t think I’m going to spend any money for dessert on you.” He stood up in disgust and stormed out.

  The next afternoon, he handed Emma a wooden box he had designed to keep his desserts from getting squashed. Inside the box were walls that could slide every which way and then lock, forming compartments that would exactly fit each of the desserts. “Now listen up, you little pipsqueak,” Uncle Simon barked. “You’re going to get my desserts for me. You’re obviously useless at baking, but at least you’ll save me some cash on delivery charges.”

  Every few days, Emma would walk to Mr. Crackle’s Cake Shop with the dessert box lashed to her back. Once she had filled it with Uncle Simon’s order, she would stagger home, laden with treats she could not eat.

  Upon her arrival, Uncle Simon would call out in his ugly, booming voice, “Well, Emma, I certainly hope you weren’t thinking of stealing some of my dessert tonight. Because if you did, I would know. And you would not be able to sit for a week.”